


honey, it isnt the stars at fault

by yerimsus (deadangels)



Category: EXO (Band), Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:34:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23446318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadangels/pseuds/yerimsus
Summary: She never really figured out why the right words won't come up to her. But then, stars die when they run out of oxygen, and to Irene, these thoughts run through her until she's left with the taste of supernovas in her mouth. Or not.(To her defense, she never liked astronomy anyway.)
Relationships: Bae Joohyun | Irene/Kim Junmyeon | Suho
Kudos: 5





	honey, it isnt the stars at fault

**Author's Note:**

> (Reposting due to AO3 malfunctioning which unintentionally prompted me to orphan the exact work.) 
> 
> To Louis, my heart still hurts for you.
> 
> And maybe to me, who ended up being a blueprint personality of both characters.
> 
> Science geeks, be warned. Spare me.
> 
> Also, see the blueprint song: https://open.spotify.com/track/5IvQipjO3zrWCGn5560jY3?si=iX8AayHtRXKZjmAOIx5Q8Q
> 
> Inactive throwaway twitter account is @purpleproses which I reactivated just now! Go follow if you want to.

Irene stares at the ceiling for far too long she starts seeing faces. Mirrored images of her trauma, looking straight back into her through unseeing irises. She can feel the lukewarm grasp of another human in contact — Irene? he calls after a while, worried creases marring the pale — she looks at him, dazed. He has since stopped moving, his hand lies idle on her breast. Face like a shining beacon combing through the dark. She continues to stare, eyes latching on to the visual qualities — away from the trauma peeking behind his back. This lasts for a few seconds until both are left unhinged.

(It's a cycle.)

Irene is made up of stars and galaxies in her mind. What she cannot say are constellations in her head, words suspended in the blue connect to another multiverse of words and phrases. She never really figured out why the right words won't come up to her. But then, stars die when they run out of oxygen, and to Irene, these thoughts run through her until she's left with the taste of supernovas in her mouth. Or not.

(To her defense, she never liked astronomy anyway.)

Funny enough Suho is a drop-out astrophysics major.

"I feel like I'm more than this, you know," he'd often say. Some times to Irene, most times directed to no one. It's just how he offers himself salvation: Parallel spaces meshed between one another, hand in possession of a cigarette while the person in front holds something more random. Maybe, a pen, his jacket — a book. And in this case, it is.

The luminosity of the stars above him would prickle, pressing in on the reminder of the very essence he convinced himself he was something more about. Then smoke would rise up in between the flesh of his lips, as a reminder of his salvation's wicked dishonesty. It covers him up in whorls, a ceiling of cloudy tendrils, and when it finally lifts up, Irene would be staring.

He would see her for the first time.

(And the cigarette would lie dead between his middle and ring finger because it isn't quite what he was holding.)

The first time they met, it was Irene swiping. She's done this many times over by then, never stopping, just a continuing series of smiling faces. Left, left, a passable face... right? Left. Then left again.

She was reading someone else's bio when her phone would suddenly reshuffle and a photo of a serious Suho in specs would appear on her screen.

Right.

Because it's a modern-day love story.

His phone would let out a ping in the middle of a discussion, a disliked subject course, and thoughts drifting between his professor's words. In a displaced area of the classroom, he would be able to view the person who swiped right on his profile.

Irene, it said. And a message.

A message he still opens to this day.

Because theirs is a love story not quite hidden, not at all private, but for the most part unsaid.

Emotions would ring hollow, and promises would be left unfulfilled. Physical but never able to minimize the distance. (Likened maybe to a mouth almost touching a soda can's rim but not quite. The rim would later reveal a stain of another pair of cherry lips.)

This only ends when Suho finds himself finally opening the page of his profile. And fingertips leaving frantic streaks upon the protective layer of his phone.

Somehow, the algorithm of his application would reshuffle too.

He never really did open his profile after that.

It's a modern-day love story: Not quite truthful, not at all false, but for the most part unsaid.

(And once upon a time, the questions Irene finds herself asking would leave him bereft of any answer.

A blanket of stars would always be there to witness it.)


End file.
